The Pale Meridian
The carriage wheels groaned against the frozen gravel. Thomas sat in the corner. He watched the snow. It fell like ash. He was twelve. His hands were cold. He held them in his lap. He waited for the palace. The road was long. The sky was low. A gray slab. It pressed down. The driver did not speak. He only clicked his tongue. *Click. Click. Click.* A rhythm. A warning. Thomas thought of his...
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